For the Love of a Daughter
by SashaLikaMusica
Summary: After nineteen years in the army, Noah Puckerman returns home expecting to find his wife waiting for him. What he finds instead is Quinn in rehab and a nineteen-year-old daughter named Dani. With Quinn rapidly fading and his rebellious daughter unwilling to let him into her life, Puck struggles to draw his family back together and finally give them the love that they deserve.


**A/N: 2,140 words. Not bad for an introductory chapter. I'm rather proud of myself for making it this long, actually. Further chapters will be longer, be assured. **

**Fun fact: this is the first time I have written a fanfic that is not about the struggles of a lesbian couple. Enjoy it if this is to your taste . . . if not, move right along. Now, don't get me wrong, there will be ****_mentions _****of lesbianism (and possibly more than mentions, seeing as its Dani), but I do stress that this is the first time I have written from a guy's point of view. This story will be Puck's as well as Dani and Quinn's. **

**Anddddd Notice!: This story features Aunt!Santana and Rebel!Dani. In this world, Santana is loving, but still a bit of an asshole - as we all know Santana is. There will be some mentions of a _thing _between her and Dani, but one that is unlasting. She is, after all, almost twenty years older. But that never stops our girl from giving a little bit of a . . . helping hand.**

**Also, a bit of a warning: This story plays with a bit more of reality than my usual fics, and will be toeing the line of some taboos. That's not to say that I approve of them, but this dabbles more in the harsh side of what real life can really be like. In other words, more plot than plot bunnies, and some people might experience a little discomfort with some of the subject matter. **

**This story is rated M for language, violence, and sexual themes. **

**Being thus warned, enjoy.**

_"Now I think it would be a beautiful thing to be still." _

_- Ellis Peters, A Rare Benedictine _

Nineteen years.

Nineteen years, eight months, and seventeen days.

That was how long he had been away.

Sweaty hands gripping the steering wheel as he drove slowly along the narrow roads, Puck found himself running over the welcome speech he had planned. Of course, things would be different now – he wasn't thickheaded enough to presume that nothing had changed in almost two decades – but some aspects of his life would surely have remained constant. There would be Quinn, for instance. Granted, she wasn't aware of his arrival back in the country, but he figured she would be thankful enough for his presence that she would overlook any lapse in communication. He did retain some slight feelings of guilt that all she had received in the past few years were occasional notices of his promotions and wellbeing, but it was _ground combat_, after all, a stake out in northern Iraq. It wasn't as if he had been stationed in a post office.

At least he could count on Quinn for a good homecoming, even after nearly twenty years of absence. It's why he had stuck with her out of all people – Quinn kept it real; she had never treated him horrible, but she never made excuses for his erratic behavior, either. With her brutal honesty to keep him in check, he had managed to outgrow those somewhat . . . unbecoming high school behaviors that had always earned him his reputation.

Either way, he had a new reputation now, and a damn good one at that, if his commanding officer's word was anything to go by. Nineteen years of flawless service, three purple hearts, and a medal of honor for some so-called "heroic actions" back in 2017. He had performed his duty without a complaint, but if it could be called anything, he hoped that it would be something good. He had started out with the intent to vent his anger on something a little more impressionable than the football team, and now, he hoped, was a good role model for his future children. He could finally make Quinn proud.

Yes, it was surely love.

Rummaging through the haphazard pile of atlas's and addresses in the passenger seat, he turned off onto a quiet street lined with trees and few houses. Each dwelling that he passed seemed to be stately – one could even go so far as to call them majestic. Large, sprawling lawns dominated each property, and small groves of conifers lined the driveways. Happily, he imagined their welcoming interiors . . . Quinn would have decorated theirs with a faultless and meticulous hand; it was sure to be comfortable and homelike.

With a frown, he glanced from the addresses on the mailboxes to the one in his hand, squinting at the tiny, cramped writing. When at last he managed to decipher it, he sighed. This wasn't the right street. Grumbling to himself slightly, he backed into one of the driveways and flipped the pickup around. Oh well. It wasn't like he was late; he had left the airport with plenty of time to get here, _and_ to buy a sandwich on his way out. Sure, Starbucks had gotten somewhat sleazier in his absence, but anything beat airplane food.

Chewing loudly in the silence of the cab, he dialed with the old-fashioned radio knobs, fighting with the static until he reached a suitable station. Country music still got on his nerves unless it was Rickie Lee Jones – then again, that era was on its last legs. As long as no one was around to witness it, he would admit that it filled him with a slight sense of nostalgia. Man, it was good to be home.

_Where's his jacket and his old blue jeans?_

_If this ain't healthy it is some kind of clean_

_I think that_

_Chuck E's in love_

Puck sang along loudly, not minding that the windows were rolled down. The neighbors could kiss his ass; he'd been away far too long not to take full advantage of the freedoms here. Some people might complain about the lack thereof, but he had seen true constraint in his years of service, and knew that what he was seeing here wasn't anything less than complete and utter liberty.

He stopped singing abruptly when he checked the street address once more, glancing up and down the side street at the slumped over, half-unpainted apartments to his left. He had arrived at what appeared to be a main intersection back in what must have once been the downtown. Surely, now, it had been relocated, for all that was left here was a cluster of shabby, five-story apartment buildings, a grimy tattoo parlor, and a bar of questionable legality. This couldn't be right.

Further inspection of the paper in his hand confirmed that it was, and Puck shifted into gear, turning onto the side street with a dubious expression. Frowning, he scanned the row of apartment buildings, his brow furrowing even harder when he noted the correct one. He pulled up against the sidewalk, taking care not to park in front of the fire hydrant, and took the keys from the ignitions. He climbed out, leaving them inside on the seat, but upon further thought, quickly reached back in and snagged them up. This neighborhood looked sketchy, and the truck was a rental – he didn't want to mar his homecoming with a maintenance fee, of all things.

Cautiously, he approached the building, ignoring the stares of a group of shady-looking men gathered on the street corner. Yes, this was less than he had hoped for, and he was truthfully rather surprised at Quinn for picking a house in such a trashy location, but none of that mattered. He was home. He was going to see his wife.

With that thought in mind, he entered the building; the door had no buzzer, and didn't appear to be locked on a regular basis, as the keyhole was taped up. Probably some kids lived here who forgot their keys a lot. He brushed his growing feelings of foreboding aside, and quickly scanned the apartment numbers listed on the wall. _Aberdeen_, _Bundchen_, _Engleton . . . Fabray._ Apartment 3B. Perfect. Only a staircase in his way, only a few more steps to take, and then he'd be holding Quinn in his arms for the first time in nearly twenty years.

His frown only grew as he climbed the stairs, noticing the worn carpeting and creaky woodwork. He nearly stopped altogether when, reaching the proper hallway, the sound of loudly blasting rock music met his ears. He snorted – obnoxious kids. He only hoped they weren't in the apartment next . . . next . . .

Next door.

The music _wasn't_ coming from the apartment adjacent to 3B. It was coming _from_ 3B. What on earth was Quinn _doing _in there? He had thought that her punk stage had died out at seventeen, and certainly at eighteen when she started dating that frumpy Yale professor. Why was she listening to this trash?

Shaking his head, Puck straightened his uniform so that it was impeccable, cleared his throat nervously, and rapped smartly upon the door.

The sound must have taken Quinn a moment to register, as there was a long gap between the knock and the response. Just as he was raising his hand to knock again, the music died out – it didn't cut off like a song from a laptop; it _faded_, as if from a record. At least Quinn still favored vinyl over playlists. Drawing a deep breath, he closed his eyes, attempting to gather his frantic, skittering thoughts. He could hear footsteps approaching the door, almost like combat boots . . .

The door opened, and a nanosecond later, Puck's eyes followed suit. It took a brief moment for the image in front of him to sink in, but when it did, the only feeling he had was one of shock, swiftly followed by the realization.

_This was not his wife._

The woman before him was younger than Quinn would be – young, but definitely an adult. She looked to be around college age, though why she would be here instead of college in the middle of the week mystified him. Her hair was blonde, like Quinn's, but of a slightly darker shade; slightly darker streaks showed here and there, natural, but still apparent. It was also dyed – half of it was pink. She was not built like Quinn; his wife was not so curvy, nor so short. Her face was entirely unfamiliar, with a larger nose than Quinn's and rounder cheeks; eyebrows more clearly defined.

The eyes, though, were Quinn's. Those eyes were absolutely Quinn's, without a single doubt. He would know that particular shade of honey-brown anywhere in the world; could pick it out of any crowd.

They were Quinn's eyes, but this young woman was most definitely not his wife.

"Are you Noah?" Puck was broken from his shock at the sound of her speech. He barely had time to notice that her voice was rough, low, and slightly irritated-sounding, though whether that could be attributed to an emotion or to its general huskiness, he could not tell. She was dressed chaotically, like a punk rocker – she wore leather, ripped jeans, and earrings, and she had an undercut. This was most definitely _not_ Quinn.

"Yes I am." He found himself replying before he was entirely aware of his own words; he was still entirely shocked. The blonde's jaw contracted; her eyes appraised him disapprovingly, filled with something far too close to annoyance for her to not have some inkling of what the name meant.

"Puckerman?"

"Yes." He wasn't sure why the surname was needed; she clearly was aware of his full name. He could tell by the way her lips curled in dissatisfaction. She knew him – or at least, she knew _of_ him.

"That's what I thought." She began to shut the door.

"Wait!" Puck stuck his hand out, catching the door before it could fully close. The young woman turned back with an aggravated expression spilling across her features. As he watched, her eyes travelled over him from head to toe, seemingly disgusted. After a moment, she scoffed.

"What. Why should I wait." It absolutely was not a question. Puck watched her anxiously, still partially in shock, as the corners of her lips quirked upwards in a haughty smirk. The majority of his mind was in completely turmoil, but in some far recesses of it, a connection was beginning to be made. That smirk was awfully familiar, even though the face was strange. The timing, too, was about accurate. He could only pray that it wasn't the case.

"Don't turn me away, please!" he asked swiftly. Had he been paying proper attention, he would perhaps have noticed that he was begging. "I came to find my wife, Quinn – she's listed as living at this address – I don't know, maybe there was some mistake – "

"There's no mistake," she cut in coolly, her voice sliding over his head like a serpent across chilled tile. "This is the house of Quinn Fabray." He almost didn't see the flash of an unknown emotion in her eyes that accompanied the admission. His eyes narrowed in her direction.

"Then where is she?" He found that he could not longer hide the desperation in his tone. The woman threw back her head and laughed loudly, the sound echoing bitterly down the filthy halls in a short bark.

"Quinn Fabray is currently unavailable," she told him at last, when the humorless sound had faded away to sour chuckles. Puck's hat had long since been swept off his head; he held it before him nervously, fidgeting with it, turning it over and over in his hands.

"Who are you then?" he nearly pleaded with her, his tone entirely imploring. Another bitter smirk found its way to her pouty lips, and she let out an irritated puff of air.

"You really don't know. She told me you didn't, but I always thought that . . ." she frowned, studying him, and seemed to catch herself as she spoke, as if holding back something she didn't wish to admit. At last, she held the door back wider, and gestured that he should enter.

"Come in, _Puck_, and we'll have a little chat," she told him coldly as he stepped past her. "There's a lot for you to catch up on. I hope you don't mind the music – it's my favorite – though of course, you wouldn't know." She crossed in front of him on her way back to the stereo that stood on the cluttered table, stalking across the linoleum in heeled-black boots that let out a dull _thump_ with each step that she took.

She smelled of lemon and allspice, like Quinn.

**Allow me to apologize for any errors, as I did not read over this before posting. I know it's not much, but there will be more, and your feedback would be thoroughly appreciated.**


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